So It's November
by TheDeluxeWar
Summary: No pairings. Post-One Year War -- Trowa finds someone in a run-down strip joint...Self-loathing. Just for Miss Duet! lol


**Rachel: **No more "Man In The Mirror" at two AM in the chapel… It can really damage your thought process…

**Pegasus: **Oh, are you writing those fanfics again…?

**Rachel: **YESSIR! ^___^ *clings to his arm*

**Pegasus: **-___- *flips hair*

**Rachel: **o__o HEHEHE!

**Pegasus: **Stop giggling, you little twerp!

~*~*~*~

_            How much is that girlie in the mirror…?_

_            The one with the long brown hair…?_

_            How much is that girlie in the mirror…?_

_            …fifty dollars a night…_

            Duet leaned into the mirror and ruffled her messy bangs, pausing only a moment to frown in disgust. She adjusted her wide black suspenders, making sure they covered as much of her chest as they possibly could and fixed the tiny black plastic-and-pleather shorts they were attached to so just a bit of her g-string was visible. _Disgusting._

Looking away out of sheer self-hatred, she finished fixing her hair without a visual aid. It didn't matter though… Her hands were accustomed to the motions, neatly braiding the chestnut mane down to her hips.

She buckled the holster about her waist and secured two faux handguns, props for her performance. Tonight, she was a Gundam pilot.

The men at the club loved her act. She would go out on stage and pretend to look around. Once she spotted an OZ soldier (they were the club's biggest customers) she would pull him up on-stage with her prop to his temple. The other men would laugh at him as she tied him to a pole and verbally abused him, but like always, he would escape and it would be time to scout out another victim. Once or twice, the officers had taken the role-play a little too far by coming after her with their own weapons after they escaped, but the manager would kick them out and her show would end. Just thinking about spending another night as their twisted little performing monkey made her sick…but she needed the money…

She was never really role-playing though. She was a Gundam pilot. And whenever she had them tied up, she told them everything that came to mind. How she loathed them… How she would go about killing every last one of them… But they only laughed. Did they think she was kidding?

Duet checked herself once more in the mirror and made a face. _Enough. _She yanked open the dresser drawn and pulled out a magazine of bullets. She filled both guns and stuffed the rest back in the drawer.

When Duet stepped out on stage again that night, she shook with anticipation. Stalking down to the end of the catwalk, she swung on the pole, the other hand shielding her eyes as she scanned the audience. Lieutenants, generals, and ordinary soldiers made up the better part of the crowd, but she was searching for someone special.

Her eyes alit on her prize, sitting somberly in the corner, sipping a drink and smiling in half-hearted amusement. 

"Zechs Merquise!" she called, drawing her gun and aiming carefully at him. He arched an eyebrow in amusement and his smirk widened a bit. The other soldiers moaned and complained about how they never got picked and waited to see what their commander would do.

Slowly, the platinum-haired man rose. He measured his steps to the stage and, with a quick leap, stood upon it. His smile waned a bit though when Duet didn't match it with her usual mischievous grin.

"Prepared to die…?" she growled, leveling the gun at his chest. Her finger tightened on the trigger, but Zechs wasn't an OZ official for nothing. The bullet hit him in the shoulder as he dodged effectively enough to de-lethalize the shot. The audience froze as Zechs doubled over in pain, clutching the wound.

"Zero six," he growled and went for his own weapon. In a flash, he had Duet in a headlock, the barrel to her temple. "What's a pilot like you doing in a place like this?"

            "I should be asking you the same thing!" she hissed, squirming in an attempt to escape his grip. His hold tightened, nearly crushing her windpipe. 

            The people in the crowd were in disarray. Soldiers climbed up on-stage to help Zechs while others called for help and still others made a mad dash for the exit. One man had the sense to yank the handcuffs off the pole and used them to shackle her wrists behind her back.

            Duet's eyes widened as a laser pin-shot danced across the foreheads of several men. It froze before it reached her, stopping instead to pick off a man with a gag and a gun. She searched the room frantically before she spotted the figure crouched in the corner of the bar.

            "TROWA!" she called and lurched towards him, but Zechs still held her fast. The banged boy's sniper picked off a few more soldiers before he himself was forced to run. "Trowa…"

            More of the soldiers surged on stage and dragged her off. An OZ truck was parked outside, the back doors wide open. Duet was thrown unceremoniously inside and they slammed shut behind her.

            "Fuck…" she murmured, cradling her head in her hands. She listened as the struggle continued outside. After a rather loud, if disappointingly short, verbal exchange between what sounded like Trowa and a OZ officer who, by some rare turn of events, wasn't stoned off his ass, the compartment doors swung open again and another figure was shoved violently inside.

            "Duet?" it asked and scooted into a sitting position against the opposite wall.

            "What do you want, Trowa? The war's over. I ain't your responsibility anymore," Duet scowled even though he couldn't see her in the darkness. She crouched in the corner of the small space and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.

            "I want to know just what you were doing," Trowa replied without missing a beat. The malice in her voice was unmistakable but he had a feeling she was on the verge of tears.

            "Trowa… Don't act so surprised. Just because I didn't turn Quatre's place into the Playboy Mansion doesn't mean I've given up my old job. Old habits are hard to break. Don't think I enjoy it, either. I just need the money. I don't have any of those real-world skills."

            "That's not what I was talking about. We all knew about that. I wanna know why you lost it tonight." The banged boy shrugged off his denim jacket and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks and pulled it on just as the truck lurched into drive.

            "Because, Trowa… It's November 10th… I don't have anything to lose now."


End file.
